


i'm waiting for this test to end

by orphan_account



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo's often asked if he's happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm waiting for this test to end

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Cynthia" by Soap&Skin.

Eduardo's often asked if he's happy. He isn't sure why he's asked, when people wait expectantly for a yes, like there could be no other answer when he's valuable, a commodity, rich and young and handsome, quick to smile, offers a firm handshake and a good head for business. He isn't sure why he's asked, because they wait for the smile, reflexive, bright. He had braces as a boy, straightened out his teeth, made him more handsome. One of his father's investments, one that panned out.

The truth is, he doesn't think about it much. The truth is, it's not really something he likes to think about. The truth is, if he thinks about it, he doesn't think about the lush city, of cuff-links and single malt and deals closed over a meal, close and intimate as a date. He still gets stuck on the sweating neck of a beer bottle, the mountains of clothes, of cans, the hunch of Mark's shoulders when he disappears into code.

First love is one of those things you don't get over, never becomes ephemeral, never fades into the background with skinned knees and off-kilter kisses, with mediocre sex, and bad sex, and sometimes good sex. It doesn't fade, lodges in the throat like a bone, and every time you swallow it, you feel it.

Eduardo has bad sex, sometimes, and good sex, sometimes, and mediocre sex, most of the time. He doesn't skin his knees anymore, was taught a sense of balance, of dignity, by his father, who didn't kiss his bruises and scrapes like that could ever be a cure. He is a rich man, exceptionally rich, and some people like him better for it, some people like him worse, and he isn't sure which side he's on, whether he likes himself more or less than he used to.

But that's not true. That's not true, because he doesn't look himself in the eye anymore; every time he passes a mirror he looks for imperfections in the knot of his tie, the part of his hair, and is careful not to look at the entirety of himself, the picture he must make; the dupe, the fool, the poor little rich boy, flush in cash and winnings who misses his daddy, who misses his first love.

Mark would call him a cliche, and Mark would be right, often is, cuts through the pleasantries, cuts through the bullshit and the niceties and everything that skims the surface, cutting to bone. Eduardo thought he'd gotten a tougher skin, facing him, thought he'd developed callouses, but it just turns out Mark stripped him bare and then rended flesh from bone, left him forty lashes, left him a martyr.

Eduardo never wanted that, never wanted to be that, just wanted the sliver of Mark's smile, wanted Mark leaning back against his palms, lax with exhaustion, pliant and willing when Eduardo steered him horizontal, eyes fluttering closed before Eduardo could lay him down.

Eduardo just wanted to put him to sleep. There wasn't anything other than that, just the simple need for the slow pulse of Mark's heart, for the way his curls fanned over his pillow, but Mark complicated everything, Mark ruined everything, fell in love with bottom lines and imaginary friends, fell in love with the way code tripped under his fingers. Eduardo stopped putting him to bed.

He doesn't know if Mark kept sleeping. He supposes he has to have slept, sometime. He wonders if there's anyone who tips him onto the nearest soft surface, smoothes their hand over the laxity of his exhaustion, the curl of his hair, whispers things in a language he doesn't understand, a lullaby after he's already fallen asleep.

Mark ruined everything, took it beyond the two of them, the four of them, took it beyond dorms and class and quiet Sunday mornings, Mark's head pillowed on Eduardo's stomach when he wakes, slow as syrup, a puddle of drool on a crisp cotton shirt. Mark ruined everything, pressing his mouth to Eduardo's once in the early days, in the flush of victory, of things going right, everything going right. Eduardo supposes Mark simply forgot the follow through, forgot what that was supposed to mean. Mark had pressed dry lips to his mouth and then nothing else, nothing but the advertisers, the investors, nothing except being left behind.

Eduardo wonders if he was the one who missed something, was the only person who never fundamentally understood Mark, understood that there wasn't anything to find beneath the prickle, nothing to find beneath the asshole, that there was nothing there at all. He always thought he'd be the one to find it, that he'd be the one to bring it out, cultivate it with careful fingers and the quietest of words, but he saw inside, finally, and it was raw and dark and tired. There wasn't anything there to save.

Eduardo feels like that now, tired, so tired, immaculate suits and immaculate hair, five star hotels and Michelin restaurants, a smile for anyone who crosses his path. He's been playing this role for ages, the millionaire's son, the billionaire's martyr, and he is so very tired.

But he works, even if he could live like a prince for the rest of his life, he works across the world where he barely speaks the language and no one bothers to remember his name, not in any way that matters. He's known for tipping well. He's known for hosting a good party.

He's tired, but he's used to it. He's always been tired. He'd put Mark to bed and curled around him, protected him from whatever there was to protect him from and clutching at the sleep Mark's warmth offered. He's been tired his whole life, and he supposes Mark's sleeping still, he supposes he's sleeping himself, wide beds, the occasional partner, the city lit below his feet, but he'd trade it, he thinks, for the dorm beds, their knees knocking together as Mark shut down for the night. He'd trade it, but he has nothing left to trade.


End file.
